


My Brother's Keeper

by TheMalhamBird



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: For Maplelantern, who wanted John Holland being protective and/or possessive of his baby brother. Please enjoy poor smol Richard suffering with a nasty cold and John trying to make him feel better (and threatening to kick ass, because John Holland cannot cope unless he threatens to kick ass at least once a day.)
Relationships: Richard II of England & John Holland Duke of Exeter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: Histories Ficathon XI





	My Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleLantern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleLantern/gifts).



As the bells began to toll for vespers a smattering of raindrops struck suddenly against the windowpanes. The smattering grew. In a matter of moments, it became a downpour. A million fat droplets hammering down insistently against the glass, breaking against it and all running together to become a veritable river rushing down the walls of Berkhamsted Castle. The bells tolled, and the rain came thundering down as though the sombre chimes had broken the blanket of thick cloud stretching out in all directions further than the eye could see, even from the battlements. What faint feeble streaks of light had filtered through the scowling sky in the handful of hours since sunrise faltered and then fled as yet more cloud rolled in. Richard coughed for the fourth time in five minutes- a wet, hacking answer to the rumble of thunder overhead- and wriggled deeper beneath the bedclothes, shivering. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand. He wiped the snot away from his sore, crusted nostrils for the thousandth time and wished for a way of getting rid of it that didn’t involve his skin or his shirtsleeve. He wanted his mama to come back, but she had gone to mass. He was supposed to be sleeping. He didn’t think he could get to sleep. He ached everywhere, and he was too cold- except for his face, which was far too warm. His head hurt. His throat hurt. He coughed again and sniffled a little bit. A streak of lightening split the sky. The wind picked up in a great ferocious gust and then dropped again quite suddenly. Richard coughed, and the thunder roared. Richard’s fevered mind turned to giants, and hideous ogres hurling rocks, and the little boy shut his eyes tight.

When he opened them again, there something looming over the bed. The ogres- one with two heads, reeking breaths hitting his cheek and one monstrous hand clamping down over his shoulder! Richard shrieked with soundless terror and ripped free, yanking the covers up above his head as his heart pounded away in his breast. He screamed again as the giant yanked the covers back down and grabbed at him, growling his name. Richard kicked frantically and revolved to bite if any part of the beast came near enough, as the ogre growled “Dickon? Dickon?” and then a second voice added to the first- “Piss off idiot you’re scaring him!” and the silhouetted figure ripped apart, the right half grabbing at the left and shoving it away, the encroaching hand yanked off with it, and then the right half of the ogre grabbed a candle from- somewhere- and the flame, though not powerful, illuminated enough that Richard could see John Holland’s face peering down at him- and Thomas Holland steadying himself a little further back, rubbing his arm and scowling at John while managing to look a little sheepish at the same time. “You piss off,” he retorted, and then dropped his voice to speak more softly: “Dickon, we came to see how you were.”

“Hurts,” Richard muttered, his voice crackling.

“Budge up.” John ordered cheerfully, and by the time Richard had mustered the energy to fidget away from the edge of the bed his half-brother had put down the candle, thrown back the covers, flopped down half on top of him and was pulling the covers back, getting them all creased up and tangled in the process. He flung his arms around Richard and pulled him up for a cuddle. “Better, squirt?” he asked, as Tom objected with “Jack, mother said not to—”

“Better” Richard mumbled and then started coughing violently. He wasn’t, really, he was still too hot and too cold, and terribly achy, and his head felt like it had been stuffed full of moss. But John rubbed his back up and down with just the right amount of pressure, and kept going even after the coughing had subsided, and it was nice: Richard felt more comfortable, and less afraid than he had been. He snuggled against John’s side, wrinkling his nose. “You smell fishy.”

“There was fish at dinner,” John said, rubbing Richard’s mop of sweaty curls. “Mother has gone to see to my Lord the Prince of Wales, but she’ll come and see you soon.”

“She said we were to _look in on you,”_ Thomas said reprovingly. “ _Quickly,_ and then let you rest more.”

“No one’s stopping you going,” John said airily as Richard’s small fingers tightened into his robe and clung fast. Thomas heaved an exasperated sigh and threw up his hands.

“When mother yells for bothering him don’t come crying to me,” he mutters and stomps out.

“Pffft,” John snorts. “As if I cry ever.”

“You cried the other day when you fell over in all your armour and twisted your ankle and then smacked your head with your sword trying to stand up.”

“Shut it, squirt.” John retorted affably, tussling Richard’s curls again. “You know if you don’t get better soon, the doctors will have to cut all this off? And then you’ll be bald. And your ears will get cold and drop off from frostbite.”

“Will not,” Richard muttered, and kicked John in the shin for good measure. “If they try and cut my hair off, I’ll bite them.” He coughed into John’s ribs and bit his lower lip. He went quiet and stayed that way for a long time. John stroked his hair.

“I don’t want them to cut my hair off,” Richard grumbled at last. “I’ll bite _really hard_.”

“They won’t need to cut your hair off really. I was joking.”

“Am I going to die?” Richard said. John’s hand froze.

“Of course not,” he said sharply.

“Neddy died.”

John exhaled softly. He rolled on to his side and wrapped his baby brother up in a bear hug, resting his chin on top of Richard’s head. “Yeah. But you’re not going to,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because Neddy…Neddy was _really_ sick. Like-”

“Like my father is sick?”

_Fuck_ , John thought, but didn’t say because his arms were full of impressionable six year old. Impressionable, fragile six year old who had a bad cold and nothing worse- John had watched their mother spend a good half hour interrogating the physician who’d looked Dickon over to ascertain that he was absolutely, definitely sure it was just a cold. “No, the prince- and Neddy—” John paused and took a deep breath, counting to ten like Sir Simon told him to before speaking if he was angry. Richard was practically still a _baby_ , he should not be scared of having a cold and he shouldn’t be worrying about his father- “Look,” John said, “if some motherfucker with a scythe comes at you, I’m going to kick his bony arse, alright?” Richard paused and then- surprisingly- nodded.

“Okay,” he said, relaxing back against John’s side. He gave a little splutter and a small half contented sigh, confident of his safety nestled up next to his older brother. John went back to stroking his hair and his own eyes drifted shut. It was warm, almost stiflingly so, in Richard’s chamber- the fire had been kept high throughout the day to encourage Richard’s fever to break. 

When Joan came in to check on her youngest a short while later, both boys were fast asleep- Richard still sniffly but breathing that much more easily; John’s arms still wrapped protectively around the smaller boy’s frame. She supposed that she ought to wake John up and send him off to his own bed lest he catch the cold from Richard and take sick in turn- but like as not the damage was already done. Cuddled up like this, if John were going to fall ill the seeds of it would have been sown already- and they looked so sweet and peaceful. She smiled and bent down to give them each a kiss- on Richard’s cheek, still a little too warm, and John’s reassuringly cool forehead. “Sleep well,” she whispered to both of them, and left them to sleep.


End file.
